What are your favorite poems?
Watch the video on my cats’ Instagram.
I was having drinks with Von and Jon when the talk turned to poetry. “Do you like poetry?” Von asked. I like poetry, I have so much respect for it that I don’t even try to write poetry. Then we started enumerating our favorite poets, and I’ll always be a lit major because I started considering them by period.
Jon said his favorite was Frank O’Hara, particularly Animals and Steps.
Animals
by Frank O’HaraHave you forgotten what we were like then
when we were still first rate
and the day came fat with an apple in its mouthit’s no use worrying about Time
but we did have a few tricks up our sleeves
and turned some sharp cornersthe whole pasture looked like our meal
we didn’t need speedometers
we could manage cocktails out of ice and waterI wouldn’t want to be faster
or greener than now if you were with me O you
were the best of all my days
Here’s Jon Hamm in Mad Men reading O’Hara’s Mayakovsky. (I love the New Yorkiness of Frank O’Hara.)
Von likes Warsan Shire, whose work appears in Beyonce’s Lemonade.
If I spend a lifetime figuring out Lolo Bill Shakespeare it’ll be a life well spent.
This wondrous nonsense. (And these wonderful translations.)
These bits from ordinary life. (I’ve mentioned Jim Jarmusch’s Paterson, no?)
Wislawa Szymborska, whom I am reading to prepare for Poland. (The book I borrowed from Deo, whose birthday is today.)
Lovesong by Ted Hughes is terrifying. “Their heads fell apart into sleep like the two halves/ Of a lopped melon, but love is hard to stop.”
I’m just getting started.
Do you have a favorite poem? Post the text in Comments, or a link to the video if one exists.
Answers to questions you might be asking, unless you wandered onto this site purely by accident >>>
April 23rd, 2018 at 11:24
Plath and Rimbaud are a couple of my favorites.
http://www.allancarreon.com/2016/10/27/walking-down-the-plath/
http://www.allancarreon.com/2016/10/20/some-rimbaud-for-his-birthday/
—
(Reading: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mG1biL_Yq2E)
I Am Vertical
by Sylvia Plath
But I would rather be horizontal.
I am not a tree with my root in the soil
Sucking up minerals and motherly love
So that each March I may gleam into leaf,
Nor am I the beauty of a garden bed
Attracting my share of Ahs and spectacularly painted,
Unknowing I must soon unpetal.
Compared with me, a tree is immortal
And a flower-head not tall, but more startling,
And I want the one’s longevity and the other’s daring.
Tonight, in the infinitesimal light of the stars,
The trees and the flowers have been strewing their cool odors.
I walk among them, but none of them are noticing.
Sometimes I think that when I am sleeping
I must most perfectly resemble them–
Thoughts gone dim.
It is more natural to me, lying down.
Then the sky and I are in open conversation,
And I shall be useful when I lie down finally:
Then the trees may touch me for once, and the flowers have time for me.
—
(Reading: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Iq7gJqQX9JI)
Le Dormeur du Val
by Arthur Rimbaud
C’est un trou de verdure où chante une rivière
Accrochant follement aux herbes des haillons
D’argent ; où le soleil, de la montagne fière,
Luit : c’est un petit val qui mousse de rayons.
Un soldat jeune, lèvre bouche ouverte, tête nue,
Et la nuque baignant dans le frais cresson bleu,
Dort ; il est étendu dans l’herbe sous la nue,
Pâle dans son lit vert où la lumière pleut.
Les pieds dans les glaïeuls, il dort. Souriant comme
Sourirait un enfant malade, il fait un somme :
Nature, berce-le chaudement : il a froid.
Les parfums ne font pas frissonner sa narine ;
Il dort dans le soleil, la main sur sa poitrine,
Tranquille. Il a deux trous rouges au côté droit.
Asleep in the Valley
(Translated from Arthur Rimbaud)
A small green valley where a slow stream flows
And leaves long strands of silver on the bright
Grass; from the mountaintop stream the Sun’s
Rays; they fill the hollow full of light.
A soldier, very young, lies open-mouthed,
A pillow made of fern beneath his head,
Asleep; stretched in the heavy undergrowth,
Pale in his warm, green, sun-soaked bed.
His feet among the flowers, he sleeps. His smile
Is like an infant’s – gentle, without guile.
Ah, Nature, keep him warm; he may catch cold.
The humming insects don’t disturb his rest;
He sleeps in sunlight, one hand on his breast;
At peace. In his side there are two red holes.
(Translation Source: https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/asleep-in-the-valley/)
April 23rd, 2018 at 11:27
P.S. I also recall loving Rilke in college, but I confess I haven’t read him in a long time. I really should go back to him. I had his “Letters to a Young Poet” as well, but I couldn’t find my old copy any more. I will have to find myself a new one.
April 23rd, 2018 at 11:30
This is another favorite. “Home” by Warsan Shire. I’m really enjoying the poems of fairly new young women poets (like Clementine von Radics and Caitlyn Siehl) which were written to really be performed and not just read on a page.
“no one leaves home unless
home is the mouth of a shark
you only run for the border
when you see the whole city running as well
your neighbors running faster than you
breath bloody in their throats
the boy you went to school with
who kissed you dizzy behind the old tin factory
is holding a gun bigger than his body
you only leave home
when home won’t let you stay.
no one leaves home unless home chases you
fire under feet
hot blood in your belly
it’s not something you ever thought of doing
until the blade burnt threats into
your neck
and even then you carried the anthem under
your breath
only tearing up your passport in an airport toilets
sobbing as each mouthful of paper
made it clear that you wouldn’t be going back.
you have to understand,
that no one puts their children in a boat
unless the water is safer than the land
no one burns their palms
under trains
beneath carriages
no one spends days and nights in the stomach of a truck
feeding on newspaper unless the miles travelled
means something more than journey.
no one crawls under fences
no one wants to be beaten
pitied
no one chooses refugee camps
or strip searches where your
body is left aching
or prison,
because prison is safer
than a city of fire
and one prison guard
in the night
is better than a truckload
of men who look like your father
no one could take it
no one could stomach it
no one skin would be tough enough
the
go home blacks
refugees
dirty immigrants
asylum seekers
sucking our country dry
niggers with their hands out
they smell strange
savage
messed up their country and now they want
to mess ours up
how do the words
the dirty looks
roll off your backs
maybe because the blow is softer
than a limb torn off
or the words are more tender
than fourteen men between
your legs
or the insults are easier
to swallow
than rubble
than bone
than your child body
in pieces.
i want to go home,
but home is the mouth of a shark
home is the barrel of the gun
and no one would leave home
unless home chased you to the shore
unless home told you
to quicken your legs
leave your clothes behind
crawl through the desert
wade through the oceans
drown
save
be hunger
beg
forget pride
your survival is more important
no one leaves home until home is a sweaty voice in your ear
saying-
leave,
run away from me now
i dont know what i’ve become
but i know that anywhere
is safer than here”
April 23rd, 2018 at 11:51
The MSG and allancarreon: Great choices. Which reminds me: Ted Hughes, Lovesong from Crow. Posting the video.
Lovesong
by Ted Hughes
He loved her and she loved him.
His kisses sucked out her whole past and future or tried to
He had no other appetite
She bit him she gnawed him she sucked
She wanted him complete inside her
Safe and sure forever and ever
Their little cries fluttered into the curtains
Her eyes wanted nothing to get away
Her looks nailed down his hands his wrists his elbows
He gripped her hard so that life
Should not drag her from that moment
He wanted all future to cease
He wanted to topple with his arms round her
Off that moment’s brink and into nothing
Or everlasting or whatever there was
Her embrace was an immense press
To print him into her bones
His smiles were the garrets of a fairy palace
Where the real world would never come
Her smiles were spider bites
So he would lie still till she felt hungry
His words were occupying armies
Her laughs were an assassin’s attempts
His looks were bullets daggers of revenge
His glances were ghosts in the corner with horrible secrets
His whispers were whips and jackboots
Her kisses were lawyers steadily writing
His caresses were the last hooks of a castaway
Her love-tricks were the grinding of locks
And their deep cries crawled over the floors
Like an animal dragging a great trap
His promises were the surgeon’s gag
Her promises took the top off his skull
She would get a brooch made of it
His vows pulled out all her sinews
He showed her how to make a love-knot
Her vows put his eyes in formalin
At the back of her secret drawer
Their screams stuck in the wall
Their heads fell apart into sleep like the two halves
Of a lopped melon, but love is hard to stop
In their entwined sleep they exchanged arms and legs
In their dreams their brains took each other hostage
In the morning they wore each other’s face
April 23rd, 2018 at 12:10
The Manila Survival Guide: “Not just read on a page”? Are you implying that something performed is superior to something “just for reading”?
I think of poetry as a separate language with multiple levels of meaning (other than the literal). Performing is a kind of interpretation which in most cases tends to limit the poem to one meaning. A poem means different things to different readers.
April 23rd, 2018 at 12:52
Not superior definitely, just different.
I used the word “just” to imply a lack of an additional step. Meaning— poetry that is read vs. poetry that is read and performed.
April 23rd, 2018 at 12:59
The Manila Survival Guide: Then be specific.
“…which were written to really be performed and not just read on a page.”
“…which were written primarily to be performed apart from being read on a page.”
“…which are pieces to be performed rather than read on a page.”
“…which are meant to be performed rather than read on a page.”
Etc
Yeah, I’m a stickler.
April 23rd, 2018 at 13:15
Hahahaha, you’re correct of course. Noting for future reference.
April 23rd, 2018 at 14:08
The Manila Survival Guide: Showed the Warsan Shire video to a group of women artists this weekend and they’re hooked.
Maybe poets can ride this art boom haha.
April 23rd, 2018 at 19:26
Alumnae Report
by Jean Musser
An alumna from my college
went to the city dump
and set herself on fire. At times she
peoples my despair
like a charred colossus
mother of four who as a girl
was bright and showed promise.
It uneases me
knowing that
even during soft mornings
when the green rains hum
something suddenly can tilt
the weight of what we’d learned
to endure and it rises
one great white unholy polar bear
tall as an oak
thundering down upon us
like a bombed cathedral
turning our eyes to blue ice
and our tongues to steam.
***
I want to send in my doggerels to the Palanca Awards (ambishosa!!!) but I feel they may be too cerebral (masyadong pinag-isipan) or neurotic. Ipo-post ko sana dito my poem about St. Christina the Astonishing but that’s just being conceited ha ha ha.
Among my favorite (contemporary) poets are The Atwood ( I love her too much to have the courage of looking up the recent Star Wars-9/11 controversy involving her), Glück, Forché, Jorie Graham, Leontia Flynn, Matthew Sweeney, and Thomas Lynch (who’s also a full-time undertaker). From Sweeney:
“Requiem”
Mournful music seeped
out through the window of the
overturned lorry.
I also like Evelyn Lau’s What We Do in the Name of Money:
https://books.google.com.ph/books?id=eAr0ZzfVbS0C&pg=PA45&lpg=PA45&dq=evelyn+lau+what+we+do+for+money&source=bl&ots=kNBN2YNILU&sig=HVYx3Ifh9dsx9lhIp_vSujXMDKc&hl=en&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwip1qb1odDaAhWEXbwKHX_uCgkQ6AEwAXoECAEQAQ#v=onepage&q=evelyn%20lau%20what%20we%20do%20for%20money&f=false
April 23rd, 2018 at 19:29
And oh, aside from Bill S., ka-birthdee ko rin pala sina John Cena, Dev Patel, Shirley Temple, John Oliver, and my spirit animal, Gigi Hadid.
April 23rd, 2018 at 20:53
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=M5zT01lm3lw
Dulce et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen
I love it because of Wilfred Owen’s life, he lived the poem he made. War is glorious only for people who don’t get to die. War is death to people who lived it, they die a little even if they survived.
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=DurBgSZ9tQg
In Memoriam AHH:54 by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
This is an ever hopeful poem for those who fight on, regardless of outcome. Life is shit, but we trust that tomorrow maybe a better day.
April 23rd, 2018 at 21:50
balqis: Email me the Christina the Astonishing poem, let’s make a video.
April 23rd, 2018 at 21:52
Ronigurl: So many great WWI poets buried in the fields where they were cut down.
Mordor was a vision of the trenches.
April 23rd, 2018 at 21:55
This just came up in a text exchange I had with a friend who was musing on the passage of time and old friendships. Poetry makes everything more intense. From Ash Wednesday by T.S. Eliot:
Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessèd face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice
April 24th, 2018 at 09:57
From Noel
Topography by Sharon Olds
https://youtu.be/EksRRmifvNw
We Real Cool by Gwendolyn Brooks
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oaVfLwZ6jes
One Art by Elizabeth Bishop
https://youtu.be/lU2uzZWr_k4
April 24th, 2018 at 11:08
I read a lot of Filipino poets in college, and one of favorites is Ramil Digal Gulle because of his poem “Big.” (I can’t find it online and I don’t have a copy of his book right now)
Also: I can’t call it a favorite but a poem I keep coming back to is Forgiving Our Fathers by Dick Lourie https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OB0RgMcB8zc
forgiving our fathers
maybe in a dream: he’s in your power
you twist his arm but you’re not sure it was
he that stole your money you feel calmer
and you decide to let him go free
or he’s the one (as in a dream of mine)
I must pull from the water but I never
knew it or wouldn’t have done it until
I saw the street-theater play so close up
I was moved to actions I’d never before taken
maybe for leaving us too often or
forever when we were little maybe
for scaring us with unexpected rage
or making us nervous because there seemed
never to be any rage there at all
for marrying or not marrying our mothers
for divorcing or not divorcing our mothers
and shall we forgive them for their excesses
of warmth or coldness shall we forgive them
for pushing or leaning for shutting doors
for speaking only through layers of cloth
or never speaking or never being silent
in our age or in theirs or in their deaths
saying it to them or not saying it –
if we forgive our fathers what is left
April 24th, 2018 at 11:49
eztv: I’ll ask Ramil. (I totally take credit for his and Lourd’s first book.)
April 25th, 2018 at 02:59
Love After Love
by
Derek Walcott
The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
_________
Here’s my love, Tom Hiddleston, reading it:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z850LNbudlw
April 25th, 2018 at 09:43
allanrvj: Tom does give good read. I like his rendition of Auden better than Auden’s.
April 30th, 2018 at 13:57
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dR1j-o_0x5A
Monet Refuses the Operation
by Lisel Mueller
Doctor, you say there are no haloes
around the streetlights in Paris
and what I see is an aberration
caused by old age, an affliction.
I tell you it has taken me all my life
to arrive at the vision of gas lamps as angels,
to soften and blur and finally banish
the edges you regret I don’t see,
to learn that the line I called the horizon
does not exist and sky and water,
so long apart, are the same state of being.
Fifty-four years before I could see
Rouen cathedral is built
of parallel shafts of sun,
and now you want to restore
my youthful errors: fixed
notions of top and bottom,
the illusion of three-dimensional space,
wisteria separate
from the bridge it covers.
What can I say to convince you
the Houses of Parliament dissolve
night after night to become
the fluid dream of the Thames?
I will not return to a universe
of objects that don’t know each other,
as if islands were not the lost children
of one great continent. The world
is flux, and light becomes what it touches,
becomes water, lilies on water,
above and below water,
becomes lilac and mauve and yellow
and white and cerulean lamps,
small fists passing sunlight
so quickly to one another
that it would take long, streaming hair
inside my brush to catch it.
To paint the speed of light!
Our weighted shapes, these verticals,
burn to mix with air
and change our bones, skin, clothes
to gases. Doctor,
if only you could see
how heaven pulls earth into its arms
and how infinitely the heart expands
to claim this world, blue vapor without end.